


Orange Chicken

by gloria_scott



Series: Lestrade/Wallander Series [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Wallander (UK TV)
Genre: Crossover, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Trauma, Minor Violence, Sexual Content, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:55:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During one of Greg’s visits to Sweden, Kurt refuses to manage his diabetes appropriately and both men must deal with the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (1) Thanks a million to catchoo152 for the beta, and to betalil, my technical consultant and story-idea-bouncer-offer!  
> (2) This story is part of my The Man Who Never Smiled ‘verse. It occurs several months following that story, and assumes an established relationship (i.e., this isn’t Greg’s first trip to Sweden).  
> (3) This ‘verse is a bit of a mish-mash between BBC and book Wallander – I’ve taken elements from each to suit my purposes (e.g., using the address of the flat on Mariagatan for Wallander’s house, and the fact that Vanya Anderson is in, Baiba Liepa is out).  
> (4) Blood glucose levels are given in mmol/l, not mg/dl; the normal range and Kurt’s medication (Amaryl) were noted in One Step Behind.

Kurt Wallander hung up the phone and sat at his desk, staring blankly out the window at the bright and busy street below, the echo of Vanya’s angry voice still haunting his ears.

“All right, fine. Go on and suffer then – see if I care.”

He felt terrible for having put her off, and from her tone he suspected that she hadn’t entirely believed his excuse for not allowing her to come over this weekend and cook for him – although that may have just been a product of his own guilty conscience. And it wasn’t a complete fabrication; he really had been ill that entire week, and he really didn’t like being fussed over when he was sick. But since being completely honest with her wasn’t an option, he would just have to live with the gnawing guilt for now. He would try to make it up to her next weekend – maybe a night out with dinner and dancing might appease her.

A throbbing ache had taken up residence in his right temple and he rubbed at it distractedly. He just wanted to go home, order some food, drink a few beers, and go to sleep. But it was nearly five o’clock; Greg was coming in from London in less than an hour and he had to leave in a few minutes to pick him up. He sighed and had started straightening his desk when his colleague, Magnus Martinsson, popped his head in the door.

“Are you off, then?”

“Yes, trying to, anyway. Do me a favor – I’m having guests in from out of town this weekend. If anything comes up, unless it’s really urgent, make sure I’m the last one you call.” As he said this, Kurt wondered if he’d been right not to officially request time off. Nothing he could do about it now; hopefully anyone intent on murder or mayhem would have the decency to wait until at least Monday.

“Will do. There are a few things I need to go over with you on the Angstrom case.”

“Can they wait?”

“Sure, no problem. Enjoy your weekend.”

Kurt nodded absently as Martinsson turned and left.  

This visit couldn’t have come at a better – or worse – time, Kurt thought as he resumed putting his files away. He desperately needed a break and he’d really been looking forward to seeing Greg again, but he was so run down he didn’t have much energy to entertain. The past two weeks had been hectic; his team was short-staffed due to Anne-Brit being on holiday, leaving him to track down a group of delinquent teens who were jumping migrant workers for sport, mostly on his own, all while fighting off a summer cold. The teens were in custody and were somebody else’s problem now, but the anxiety and headache they’d caused him still lingered.

On the one hand, it would be nice to be able to forget about work and relax for a few days, maybe take a day trip with Greg to the beach and get out into the fresh air.

On the other hand, there was the stress of lying to Vanya, the fear of getting caught, and of course, the persistent feelings of self-doubt and confusion over his relationship with Greg – a relationship that seemed to be continuing despite all reason and his best efforts at self-sabotage. He just needed to stop thinking about it all for a while. He powered down his computer and left the station without saying goodbye to anyone, and headed out to the train station in Malmö.

When Kurt pulled up, Greg was already there waiting with his small overnight bag lying on the pavement in front of him. Kurt was relieved he didn’t have to park and get out. The first few moments were always a bit awkward between them since he never knew if Greg expected an affectionate greeting or not, and he would have felt more pressure if he’d had to get out of the car. Thankfully, Greg didn’t push it; he simply got in with a smile, gave a friendly “hello,” and they were on their way back towards Ystad.

They exchanged the usual pleasantries and then fell silent. In the brief lull, Greg looked him up and down.

“You look a bit done in. Everything all right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Kurt replied. “Just work…you know how it is.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, work,” he said, turning back to watch the road again. “This week was a real bugger. I was lucky to get away myself.”

That was the nice thing about being with Greg – he did know exactly how it was. With him, Kurt didn’t have to explain everything or offer excuses, or worse, have to pretend he felt differently than he did to appease whomever he was with. His ex-wife, his daughter, and now Vanya…they couldn’t just simply let him _be_. But Greg understood, and he left Kurt in peace for the remainder of the drive, for which Kurt was thankful.

Once they arrived at the house, Greg dropped his bag in the bedroom and went to the bathroom to freshen up. Kurt grabbed a couple of beers from the fridge and brought them out to the living room. He sat on the sofa and turned on the television, flipping through the channels to try and find some English language programming that wasn’t too obnoxious.  Greg came out and joined him just as he settled on an old Premier League game.

“Ta,” Greg said, accepting the beer and sitting down next to him on the sofa.

The tense awkwardness between them continued as they drank and watched the game in silence. It was an annoying sort of tension, like a sneeze that refuses to come out. They both knew why Greg was there, yet they played at this “will we or won’t we” thing almost every time. Kurt fussed silently with his empty beer bottle for a few minutes before going into the kitchen to get another. When he returned, he noticed Greg casting a sidelong look at the drink in his hand.

“What?” Kurt’s tone was sharper than he’d intended. He certainly didn’t want to start an argument, but the disapproval he’d read on Greg’s face had mixed with the dull but steady ache in his head and shortened his temper considerably.

“Nothing,” Greg answered and shrugged. “It’s just…it’s not really good to drink so much on an empty stomach, is it?”

Kurt knew Greg was referring obliquely to the diabetes, even though they’d never spoken about it. He didn’t know how Greg might have worked it out, but he shouldn’t have been surprised – it’s not easy to hide things from a seasoned detective. The thought only deepened his irritation, but, for the sake of being a courteous host, he decided to let it go.

“Do you want to order some food, then?” he offered.

“Sure,” Greg said, brightening a bit. “What are we having?”

They settled on Chinese, and Kurt dug out a menu for a place nearby that delivered. Greg leaned in and looked over Kurt’s shoulder as they pored over the menu together, Kurt translating, until Greg finally decided on the Beef Lo Mein. When Kurt indicated he would have the Orange Chicken, Greg looked at him and frowned.

“Isn’t that a bit sweet?” he asked.

Kurt’s simmering irritation immediately boiled over into anger. “What is it to you?” he snapped.

“Look I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s just…well, you need to watch your blood sugar, don’t you?”

“That’s none of your business,” Kurt replied hotly, “It’s for me to deal with.”

“Well that’s just the point,” Greg rejoined, his voice now rising to match Kurt’s angry tone. “You’re not dealing with it. If you were, I wouldn’t have had to say anything.”

Kurt bolted up from the sofa. “It’s not your concern, so just leave it. I don’t need to hear this from you.” He was shouting now, and could feel his face burning hot.

“Fine,” Greg shouted back, throwing a hand up and turning back to the game. “Forget it. Do whatever the fuck you want.”

“Fine,” Kurt responded through gritted teeth. He grabbed his mobile and the menu off the coffee table and stalked into the kitchen. After placing the order for the food, he busied himself tidying up and setting out plates and silverware with more banging of cupboards and slamming of drawers than was strictly necessary. He hated conflict, but more than that, he hated being told what to do. Greg was right of course; he’d been lax on his diet all week because he’d been so busy. Even so, if he tried to go back into the living room now he knew he’d just wind up saying things he’d regret and ruining the weekend even further than he’d done already. So he remained lurking in the kitchen until the ring at the door announced the arrival of dinner.

Both men were tense and quiet as they sat down to their meal. Kurt had grabbed another beer from the fridge; even as he set it down on the table in front of him he knew he’d done it more out of spite – daring Greg to say something about it – rather than because he’d really wanted another drink. Greg glanced up briefly, taking note, but said nothing. They ate in a strained sort of silence, the clink of forks on plates and the buzzing drone of the voices on the television in the background seemed loud and grating.

Kurt was sullenly chewing his food and avoiding all eye contact with his dinner companion when a hand and fork crept into his view, stabbed a bit of meat off his plate, and retreated. He looked up to see Greg grinning impishly at him through a mouthful of orange chicken.

“Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” he said in response to Kurt’s glare.

“If you want some, take it out of the container,” Kurt scolded lightly, as if chastising a naughty but favored child. He picked up and plunked the take-away container closer to Greg.

"Don’t mind if I do.” Greg spilled some onto his plate, and Kurt put his head down and continued eating. He could feel Greg’s eyes on him, though, and after a few moments he reluctantly looked up and met his gaze.

“Sorry about before,” Greg said. “Didn’t mean to be such a nag.”

Kurt shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I was just being a bit irritable.”

“A bit?” Greg said, smiling broadly.

“Yes,” Kurt felt the corner of his mouth quirk in a half-smile. “Just a bit.”

He took a deep breath and started to relax, feeling the tension between them slowly dissipate like water clearing from an unstopped drain. They finished up and Greg helped him clear the table. When that was done, they settled on the sofa again to watch an old episode of Top Gear, all the while a different sort of tension growing between them. Tentative touches led to exploratory kisses, and soon they were making their way towards the bedroom, fumbling with each other’s buttons and belt.

Kurt’s limbs felt heavy and his head still ached; he would have been fine with a quick mutual wank and then some sleep. But Greg’s voice in his ear – _God, I want you_ – and Greg’s hips raised in greedy anticipation spurred him on. It’s why Greg had come all this way, after all; no sense in wasting such a rare opportunity. He gathered his strength and took what was offered – hard and fast and breathless. When he finally came he collapsed forward, panting heavily, completely spent. Vaguely aware of Greg finishing himself off beneath him, he felt a twinge of guilt for not having been more attentive to his partner.

Kurt rolled over and closed his eyes, trying to catch his breath. His skin was slick with sweat even though the room was fairly cool, and he could feel his heart skipping erratically. He draped an arm over his face and swallowed hard, his throat painfully dry.  The bed shifted beneath him as Greg got up and made his way to the bathroom to clean up. On his way back, Kurt stopped him before he could lie down again.

“Could you bring me a glass of water, please?” he asked, his voice sounding thick and gravelly to his own ears.

Greg nodded and ambled out into the kitchen, returning quickly and handing him a tall glass of water before clambering back into bed. Kurt polished it off in just a few gulps.  He could feel his hand shaking a bit as he raised the glass to his lips, and hoped the darkness covered it.

“You feeling all right?” Greg asked.

“Fine, fine,” Kurt replied lightly, “Just not as in shape as I used to be.”

“Really? I thought you were looking fitter. Been exercising?”

Kurt smiled at that, then immediately cursed his vanity for being so pleased by Greg’s words.

“A little, here and there,” he replied. “Doctor’s orders.” While this was, technically, the truth, it hadn’t been his primary motivation to get moving and walk a mile or two every morning, and even to pick up the weights a few times a week. It was the prospect of being naked with Greg, who was fairly fit, and who also seemed fitter since their first encounter, now that he thought about it. He wasn’t as self-conscious about being with Vanya, but then with her there wasn’t that automatic impulse to compare himself with another male.

 _Vain and competitive_ , he thought. _I really should have grown out of those things by now._

“In fact,” he continued aloud, “I thought we’d go on a bit of a beach hike tomorrow morning, before it gets too hot.”

“Sure, I’m game.”

Kurt rolled over and closed his eyes. He could feel Greg still propped up next to him, his stubbled chin pressing insistently against the back of Kurt’s shoulder.

“So, does all this mean you’ve forgiven me, then?” Kurt could hear the grin in Greg’s voice, and he smiled in spite of himself. He rolled over onto his back again, and Greg settled in beside him.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he answered with mock weariness. It simply wasn’t possible for him to remain angry with Greg, who was always so capable of appeasing him without being ingratiating or annoying. He berated himself for being unfairly harsh earlier. After all, Greg only said what he said because he cared, though Kurt really couldn’t imagine why.

“You keep coming back,” he said quietly. “Why do you keep coming back?”

The answer was swift and simple. “You keep having me.”

Kurt sighed and ran his fingers through Greg’s hair. “My daughter says I’m a difficult man to live with.”

“Good thing I don’t live with you then,” Greg joked. “You’re okay for a weekend here and there.” He paused, then, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I tend to disappoint people.”

Greg pulled away to peer at him in the dark, brow furrowed. “You really believe that?”

“It is a demonstrable fact.”

Greg gazed at him for a moment before settling back down. He ran a hand lazily through the hair on Kurt’s chest, briefly tracing the smooth line of the scar there.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

Kurt nodded. “Please.”

“Really? I get to start a sentence with, ‘Do you know what your problem is?’ and you won’t get angry?”

Kurt laughed “Yes, but just this once.”

“Right, so, do you know what your problem is?” Greg chuckled, but his voice quickly became low and serious. “You suffer needlessly. You put yourself through the wringer because you care so much about everyone and everything, but you don’t take care of yourself. I saw that in you the first night we met. That caring – it’s your great strength, and I can’t tell you how much I admire it, but it’ll tear you up if you let it. Also,” he added as an afterthought, and Kurt could just see the corner of his mouth turn up in a smirk, “you have some serious control issues.”

Kurt nodded thoughtfully and chuckled. “Yes, that I’ll easily admit to.”

“Yeah, a lead inspector with control issues,” Greg continued. “You’re a fucking cliché, you are. How did you ever manage being a junior officer and having to take orders all the time from everyone?”

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Kurt replied. “I got in trouble enough times for going off on my own. It’s a wonder I ever made it to Inspector, or that I’m even still alive.”

They fell back into silence for a bit, until Greg’s hand on his chest stilled.

“Give yourself a break, will you?” he said, softly.  “I’m not expecting anything, so you don’t have to worry about disappointing me. Just relax, all right?”

“I’ll try,” Kurt said, and placed a kiss on Greg’s brow.

He felt himself warming up to Greg more and more; every visit chipped away at his defenses, and he wondered where that would lead.

 _Nowhere good, probably._

If he kept seeing Greg like this, it was only a matter of time before things became too messy to ignore. Sooner or later he’d be forced to make a choice, and being with Vanya would undoubtedly be the easier road to travel in the long run. But the thought of cutting Greg loose made his stomach clench; he wasn’t ready to give up their growing friendship and the (usually) fantastic sex. Not yet, anyway.

He lay awake for some time, still feeling awful from having overindulged on beer and carbs. His head throbbed ever more painfully and his heart still fluttered uncomfortably in his chest – he’d need to take a piss soon as well. It was his own pigheadedness that was to blame, of course, and he cursed himself silently for it. Soon he could hear Greg snoring softly beside him. Trying not to wake him, Kurt gingerly left the bed and made his way to the bathroom. He relieved himself, then took a few aspirin and downed another glass of water. Leaning over the sink, he peered into the mirror at his haggard face and vowed not to overdo it again tomorrow. 


	2. Chapter 2

Greg woke up the next morning to the raucous chirping of birds just outside the window. He lay there for a few moments with his eyes closed, wondering where Kurt had got to. The sound of virulent coughing and spitting – _that was lovely_ – followed by running water and the squeak of the tap clued him in. He got up with a slight groan, found his boxers where they had been discarded on the floor the night before, slipped them on, and padded off down the hall towards the bathroom. Through the open door, he saw Kurt set a small black case on the sink and unzip it, revealing his testing supplies. He leaned against the door frame and watched for a moment, and then came in and perched on the closed lid of the toilet.

“I don’t need an audience,” Kurt said without looking up.

“But I want to watch.”

“Why?”

“I just do, all right?” Kurt was a bit of a tough nut to crack – one of the most private people Greg had ever been with – but this was ridiculous. He had, of course, known about the diabetes for some time. The first thing any self-respecting detective did when spending any amount of time in another person’s home was to rifle the medicine cabinet, after all.  Still, they never talked about it. In fact, Kurt had never mentioned it, not even in passing.  Greg didn’t want this to remain some weird secret-that’s-not-really-a-secret-at-all between them, so he decided to ignore Kurt’s surliness and blithely carry on.

“Do you have to prick your finger?”

“Yes.”

“Can I do it?”

“You want to make me bleed, do you?” Kurt replied sardonically. Greg just smiled and held out his hand until Kurt relented, giving him a small, black plastic device that looked almost like a key ring torch. He listened attentively as Kurt explained how to use it, then swiped the tip of Kurt’s finger with an alcohol swab and positioned the device against the side of his fingertip as Kurt had showed him, before pressing the release button. When he pulled it away, a tiny drop of blood beaded up. Kurt squeezed it a bit until it grew slightly larger, then Greg watched as he wicked the blood onto a test strip that had been inserted into a small electronic monitor. They waited in silence until the monitor beeped. Kurt glanced at it briefly, before removing the test strip.

“Well? What is it?” Greg asked.

Kurt busied himself cleaning up and putting his testing supplies away, not meeting Greg’s eyes. “12.2.”

“What’s normal?”

After a lengthy pause, “2.6 to 6.4,” Kurt said. He turned and gave Greg a steely look. “Don’t!”

“I didn’t say anything!” Greg protested.

“But you were thinking it.”

Of course he was thinking it – _I told you so, you stubborn git!_ – he just thought he was doing a better job of keeping it off of his face.

“What are you, the thought police now?” Greg teased.

“Just leave it,” Kurt snapped.

“All right, fine. So what do you need to do, then?”

Kurt reached into the cabinet and took out a prescription bottle and gave it a little shake. Greg reached up and snatched the bottle away.

Kurt threw his hands up in exasperation. “Must you touch and get into everything?”

“You weren’t complaining last night.” Greg laughed, holding the bottle out of reach and blocking Kurt with his other hand as he tried to snatch it back. “Will you get off? I’m just curious. What do they do?” he continued, looking at the label as if he could read it. Between the unfamiliar drug name and the Swedish directions it was all Greek to him.

“They lower blood sugar.”

“Yes, but _how_?”

“They help the pancreas produce more insulin. What are _you_ , studying to be a physiologist now?”

“You seem a bit out of sorts. Didn’t you sleep well last night?” Greg said, relenting and handing the bottle back to him.

“Just go and get dressed. I’ll be out in a bit.”

He watched as Kurt tapped out a couple of pills onto the palm of his hand and washed them down with water from the tap, before getting up and going back into the bedroom.  

At breakfast, Kurt seemed to forget his earlier surliness and was almost cheerful as he cooked up some bacon and eggs and beans on toast – almost a proper English breakfast. Greg was touched that Kurt had remembered what he liked, and more than a bit relieved; he didn’t think he would be able to take an entire day of Kurt’s prickliness without firing back. He heartily tucked in to show his appreciation, while Kurt only picked at some toast and a few strips of bacon with his coffee.

They were on the road by nine, and drove out to Mossby Strand via the coast road. Greg gazed out the window, thinking how lovely the south of Sweden was – big sky and open spaces – such a contrast to the dirty press of London. He imagined that sense of spaciousness that he so enjoyed could also be terribly isolating, especially when winter rolled in off the Baltic.

“I used to bring Linda to this beach when she was a little girl.”

Greg turned and gazed at Kurt as he talked about his daughter, accepting this rare offering of personal memories in silence. When he turned back to watch sun-burnt golden fields rising and falling like waves towards the steel blue of the horizon, he thought perhaps he understood the melancholy man sitting next to him a bit more.

Kurt parked the car, and then they stopped at the little beach shop and bought a few bottles of water. Picking their way among the groups of sunbathers and the occasional kite flyer, they headed off along the sand with the water on their left. They passed the swimming jetty and kept going until the crowds thinned out and the sound of children laughing and playing in the surf receded. As they walked side by side, they fell into an amicable silence broken only by the pound of the surf and the hiss of sand being blown among tufts of beach grass. Greg’s mind wandered back over the day before – his arrival, their little tiff, the sex – and finally settled on something Kurt had asked him.

 _Why do you keep coming back?_

His answer the night before had been deliberately glib. He hadn’t really allowed himself to think much on their state of affairs, as it were. At some point they’d transitioned from fling to fuck buddies to lovers. At least he thought they had; he was hardly sure how he felt about it all, and Kurt was an even tougher read. He wouldn’t go so far as to say _boyfriends_ – it sounded so juvenile and they were both hovering around fifty for Christ’s sake. 

He kept coming back because he was drawn to this man. Sure they could be awkward and fumbling with each other; they spent so much time apart they had to get reacquainted all over again each time they came together. It made the sex retain its novelty and spark, so that was a plus, in a way. And they usually got on well. Sure, Kurt was being a real bear this time, but that didn’t bother him; he had a temper himself, so he could hardly complain. Kurt was more often generous and kind, and familiar to him in that strange way that some people just _are_ – as if you’ve known them forever, or in another life or something.  Once they got past the brief awkwardness and the occasional bickering, there was a calm and steady ease between them that Greg had rarely found before. Like now – as they walked, simply enjoying each other’s company and the sand under their feet and the sun, Greg felt as if they’d once again moved past the choppy breakers at the shore and out into the protected waters of the bay, calm and still.

They wound up walking farther than they’d meant to, and on the way back Kurt began to lag behind. He had to sit down several times, and became irritable when Greg asked if he was okay.  It was well past noon when they finally got back to the car park. Kurt seemed to feel better once they got into the car and turned the air conditioning on. They headed back towards Ystad, stopping at a small restaurant in Svarte for lunch. Once seated, Kurt immediately asked for some water, then excused himself to go to the toilet. When he came back, the waiter showed up to take their orders. Greg had Kurt translate the menu for him, and once he’d decided on the fish and chips, Kurt turned to the waiter and ordered for both of them in Swedish.  The waiter nodded, took their menus and left.

“What’d you get, then?”

“The chopped salad,” Kurt said and reached for his water. 

“Sure that’s enough for you?” Greg asked.

“Oh, not this again,” Kurt put his glass down with a thump and leaned back, arms crossed. “I thought you agreed to leave off? Don’t you think a salad is healthy enough?”

“I didn’t mean it like that, you tetchy bastard,” Greg said, although he sort of did. “It’s just, that was a bit of a hike and I’m starving. Aren’t you?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay, I wasn’t trying to make a fuss about it. Just don’t try taking any of mine when it arrives.”

“I’m not the one that makes a habit of eating off of other people’s plates,” Kurt replied, picking up his napkin and placing it on his lap.

They ate lunch with no further incident or argument. In spite of his claim of not being very hungry, Kurt devoured his salad rather quickly. He accepted a small handful of chips from Greg’s plate as well, and drank practically an entire carafe of water on his own. Greg noticed but didn’t think too much of it; it was getting hotter, after all, and they had walked quite far that morning. He was just happy that Kurt’s mood seemed to improve after he’d gotten some food into him.  When they’d finished, Kurt paid the bill and then headed to the toilet again before they got back on the road.

They returned to Kurt’s house shortly after two, and immediately fell into bed. Their lovemaking was much less frantic this time, but that was normal since they’d taken some of the edge off the night before. In spite of the slower pace, Kurt seemed to put a lot of effort into bringing Greg off – he was breathing heavily and sweating by the end of it, and Greg could see his pulse pounding in his neck. Despite Greg’s best efforts to reciprocate, Kurt’s interest flagged until he finally just pushed Greg’s hand away and told him to stop.  

“You feeling okay?” Greg asked, bracing himself against an angry retort.

Kurt just closed his eyes and nodded. “Yeah, just need to rest for a bit. You don’t mind, do you?” 

“No, s’all right,” Greg replied, running a hand through Kurt’s damp hair.

He rolled off the bed and pulled on his clothes, then went out into the living room. Casting about for something to do, he perused Kurt’s sparse shelves. The books were all in Swedish, so that was no good. He flipped through the CDs and vinyl records, finding only opera, and he didn’t feel quite brave (or bored) enough for that. Finally, he dropped onto the sofa with a defeated sigh and reached for the remote.

An hour and a half later, he was fidgeting with boredom and wondering how cross Kurt would be if he went in to wake him. They had little enough time together as it was without him wasting time alone watching crap game shows on the telly; he could do that at home for crying out loud. Besides, he reasoned, it was probably time to start talking about dinner. He made up his mind and got up and went into the bedroom.

As soon as he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Kurt he knew something was wrong. Kurt’s face was pale and sallow and his breathing was labored and irregular. Greg passed a hand over his forehead; his skin was cold and clammy to the touch.

“Kurt?” he called softly. “Time to wake up.”

When there was no response, he grabbed Kurt’s shoulder and gave him a shake.

“Kurt,” he said, louder. “Come on now, love. Wake up!”

Kurt’s eyes fluttered open and he looked about, confused. He muttered something low and unintelligible.

“Speak up, love. I can’t understand you. What’s the matter?”

Kurt waved a hand at him vaguely and tried to speak again, but Greg couldn’t understand a word of it. Maybe he was speaking Swedish, maybe gibberish, or maybe something in between the two – Greg had no idea. Not knowing what else to do, he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialed John Watson’s number, praying the doctor would pick up.

“Hello?”

“It’s Lestrade. Listen, I need your help.” Greg went into his just-the-facts crisis mode, rattling off relevant information that would help John help him – visiting a friend, diabetic, didn’t eat much, can’t wake him up, sounds like he’s drunk.

“Should I check his blood levels?” Greg asked, wondering if he could remember how from that morning’s demonstration.

“No, it’s more important to get something sweet into him right away. Non-diet soft drink, honey, sugar cubes, anything at all. Just make sure he doesn’t choke on it.”

“Right,” Greg was already heading out to the kitchen to find something before John had finished speaking. No regular soda in the fridge, so he opened every cabinet door until he came upon the sugar bowl. He grabbed a handful of cubes and hurried back into the bedroom.

“Kurt?” Greg said, sitting down on the bed next to him and tapping his cheek gently. “I need you to eat this. Open up.”

Kurt seemed too disoriented to comply, so Greg bit one of the sugar cubes in half and placed a piece under his tongue to dissolve. _Fat lot of good that’s going to do at this rate_ , he thought.

“I don’t think this is going to work,” he told John.

“Okay, you should call emergency services then.”

“Fuck, I don’t know the number for it here.”

“Where are you?”

“Sweden.”

He heard John’s muffled voice speaking to someone else, and an even more muffled reply.

“Okay, don’t worry. Sherlock’s looking it up…right, it’s 112…he’s calling it in, just give us the…oh, he already knows the address, never mind.”

Greg couldn’t be arsed to know or care how Sherlock knew where he was; he was just thankful the nosey bastard had kept tabs on him this time.

“Okay, they say they’re not far from Mariagatan – five minutes tops. You should be…”

“Fuck!” Greg almost dropped the mobile as Kurt started twitching and jerking, almost knocking him off the bed. He lunged forward and grabbed hold of Kurt with his free hand to try and steady him.

“He’s having a seizure!” he shouted.

“All right, just make sure his airway’s clear and turn him on his side if you can.”

“Right, what else?” Greg asked after he had turned Kurt onto his side and away from the edge of the bed.

“Nothing. Just wait for the paramedics now.”

Gradually the twitching subsided and Kurt’s body became tense and rigid. Greg’s throat constricted and his eyes started to burn. It was agony to have to watch this and not be able to _do_ anything but wait. He was dimly aware of John’s voice murmuring quietly to Sherlock in the background – _I didn’t know you spoke Swedish_ – but he kept his attention on Kurt. He breathed with relief when he finally heard the wail of a siren in the distance. It quickly got louder, and then stopped as the ambulance pulled into the driveway.

“They’re here,” he said and hung up.

He ran to the door and flung it open.

“He’s back here,” he said as the paramedics entered, leading them back towards the bedroom. He didn’t know if they spoke English or not, but he launched a steady stream of information at them with barely any pause for breath.

“I’m a colleague of his and we were supposed to meet for dinner when he didn’t answer I tried the door and it was unlocked so I came in and found him in the bedroom. He’s a diabetic.”

 _Fuck, I should have said that first_ , he thought.

Once in the bedroom, he backed up against the wall to stay out of the way. The paramedics quickly went to work, taking Kurt’s vitals, starting an intravenous line, trying to get him to respond to their questions. One of them looked at Greg and asked in halting English if Kurt were on any medications. Greg nodded and rushed to the bathroom, grabbed the pill vial he’d examined that morning, along with several others that were in the medicine cabinet, and ran back. He handed them over and the paramedic glanced at each one, said something to his companion, and went back to work.

Kurt’s muscles began to relax and his breathing evened out. He stirred and opened his eyes, and eventually started answering the paramedics’ questions.  His voice started off slow and slurred at first, but soon became stronger and more coherent. Greg had no idea what he was saying, but when he saw Kurt vigorously shaking his head ‘no’ he knew Kurt was refusing to be transported to hospital – probably because it was what he would have done himself. _Stubborn git._

Kurt became gradually more lucid, until eventually he was able to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed. One of the paramedics asked him another question, and he waved it away with an impatient, “Nej, nej, tack”. The paramedic disconnected him from the now empty IV bag, while the other packed up their gear. They both nodded to Greg as they walked past him, and he followed after, closing and locking the front door behind them.

Greg made his way back to the bedroom, almost reluctantly. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he stared at the floor before Kurt’s feet, only looking up when Kurt finally stood and walked towards him.

“Well, that was a bit of excitement,” Kurt said, an almost sheepish smile on his face.

His apparent flippancy about the whole ordeal was what did it. The coil of fear and anger that had been bound up tightly inside of Greg suddenly snapped, and he shoved Kurt backwards. The first punch landed in the hollow of Kurt’s shoulder, the second on his back as he instinctively turned away from the blows.

“You could have died! You stupid, fucking arsehole! What the fuck is the matter with you?” Greg shouted, punctuating every other word with his fists.  Kurt didn’t try to retaliate; he just kept his back turned, one arm flung up to protect his head, until Greg’s rage dissipated and the blows stopped.

Greg took a ragged breath in and backed away. He could feel his face burning with anger and his hands were shaking. Kurt turned slowly to face him again, and the pained look on his face was more than Greg could bear. He retreated to the bathroom, and, once there, slid down the tiled wall, put his head in his hands, and tried unsuccessfully not to hyperventilate.

Kurt’s slow, heavy footsteps approached, but Greg didn’t look up when they stopped beside him. He half expected to be collared, dragged out and pummeled in return. _Serves me right_ , he thought. He flinched as Kurt reached down and grazed the back of his head with his fingertips, but there was no violence in the touch. After a moment, Kurt slowly sank down beside him and put an arm about his shoulders. Greg turned and clung to him, trying to steady his breathing as Kurt stroked his back and gently shushed him. 

“Could you just fucking listen, next time?” Greg pleaded into his neck.

“Yes, yes, all right,” Kurt soothed.

They sat like that for some time, until Greg’s breathing finally evened out and his grip on Kurt’s neck began to ease up.

“Christ, would you look at this?” he asked with a dry, mirthless laugh. “You’re the one who almost died, and I’m the one being comforted.”

“It’s always harder being the one left behind. You know that as well as anyone,” Kurt replied gently.

Emotion rose in his throat again and threatened to choke him, and he struggled to swallow it down. Kurt simply held him, patiently waiting for him to relax again. Once he did, Kurt pulled away to look at him.

“Come and lie down with me,” he said, more of an order than a question. Greg nodded silently and swiped a hand under his nose.

“Okay, just give me a minute, yeah?” Kurt nodded, and then got up and headed into the bedroom. Greg sat for a moment more, silent and numb. He rose slowly and splashed some cold water on his face, before going out and joining Kurt who was already in bed. Kurt turned down the blanket for him, and he nestled in beside him. They lay quietly together for a while, the sound of canned laughter and applause from the telly that Greg had neglected to turn off emanating from the living room. 

Greg took a deep breath and met Kurt’s eyes.

“I’m really sorry I hit you.”

Kurt just shrugged. “I’m sorry I almost died.”

“Yeah, that would have been much worse,” Greg’s grin flashed, then faded. “But honestly, I’m not like that. I don’t want you to think I’m like that.”

Kurt nodded. “I know.”

“You all right?”

“I’m fine…a bit bruised, perhaps.”

“I wasn’t really trying to hurt you, you know.”

“I know,” Kurt murmured again, stroking his shoulder. “It was fear…that’s all that was.”

Greg knew he was right in that. He hadn’t really been angry at all – he’d been terrified.

“Still,” he continued, “it was inexcusable. I’ll not do it again.”

“See that you don’t.” It was spoken gently enough, but there was no doubt in Greg’s mind – he wouldn’t get away with another outburst like that again.

His mobile buzzed in his pocket, and he fished it out.

 _Everything okay?_

Christ, he’d forgotten all about John. He quickly typed and sent a response.

 _All sorted. Thanks for your help, mate. Really._

Greg settled back down again, and his thoughts drifted over the afternoon’s events and settled on the moment when help had finally arrived. A compulsion laid hold of him to tell Kurt what he’d told the paramedics – how he’d lied to them about why he was there. He didn’t know why; maybe he was trying to reassure Kurt that he’d tried to protect him from wagging tongues. Whatever the reason, it just came tumbling out of him. He tried to keep his voice even and his tone light, but emotion crept in around the edges, making them rough and raw.

Kurt must have heard it. “Are you upset that you lied?” he asked.

Of course he was upset. He was upset that he would have to even think about appearances under the circumstances. He was upset that the first words out of his mouth were him making excuses for being there, and not, “This man has diabetes and barely ate anything today.”

“No,” he shook his head. “Just worried about you is all. I know how small town gossip can be.”

“It’s fine…it’s fine,” Kurt reassured him. “I’m just glad you were dressed when they got here.”

“Yeah, and that you’d put your boxers back on.”

“Oh? I thought you had done that.”

“No, not me, mate,” Greg laughed.

“Hm. I might have gotten up to use the toilet at some point and put them on then – it’s all very hazy.”

Kurt was taking this awfully well and with surprisingly good humor. When Greg pointed that out, Kurt simply laughed and assured him that if there were any talk he could handle it.

They fell silent, and just like that they had entered still waters again – at least until the next storm. Greg nestled his head against Kurt’s chest and listened to his heart beating, slow and steady. Was it worth it? Would he keep coming back? He thought he’d sensed a shift in Kurt, maybe even a softening of that hard shell of his that kept people at such a long and lonely distance. It’s what he’d wanted, so why was he feeling his own defenses snick back into place now?

 _It was fear…that’s all that was._

 _It’s always harder being the one left behind._

He squeezed his eyes shut against the hot sting of tears and started singing The Clash’s _Brand New Cadillac_ silently to himself – an old trick of his he often used to put his mind elsewhere when things got to be too much.

After a while, Kurt stirred slightly and yawned. “What’s the time?” he asked.

Greg dashed furtively at his eyes and rolled over to look at the alarm clock on the night stand. “About six.”

“Hungry?”

“Yeah, I could eat. What are we having?”

“I don’t know. What would you like?”

Greg considered for a moment and then grinned. “Pretty much anything but Chinese.”


End file.
